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I see her the second I round the corner.

Tasha.

Arms crossed. Eyes blazing.

“Really?” she snaps. “Her? You’re dedicating songs to some charity case girlfriend on your headliner tour?”

I walk past her like she’s air.

She follows, heels stabbing the concrete. “You have press commitments! Reggie’s looking for you—”

“I don’t give a shit, Tasha.”

She gasps like I slapped her.

“If the label doesn’t like it, tell them to call me. Or better—tell them to call my lawyer. I’m done with you.”

I push through the crew hallway, ignoring the glares and side-eyes, and head straight for the parking lot. The city lights are a blur. The adrenaline in my veins from the performance has turned to a tight knot of tension behind my eyes.

I get back to the hotel, slam the door behind me, and lean against it, chest heaving.

I grab my phone and call Laney.

One ring.

Two.

Straight to voicemail.

She’s probably asleep.

Of course she is.

I stare at the screen like it might bring her back to me, then type out a message:

Eddie: I love you. So much. I’m sorry I had to hang up earlier. You’re everything to me.

Still not enough.

Not for what I’m feeling.

I scroll to Nico’s number and hit dial.

He answers on the second ring, voice clipped. “Yes.”

“I need your help.”

There’s a beat. No questions. Just silence.

Then: “Tell me what you need.”

“Get me everything you can on Gerald Whitmore and any of those other fuckers at the label. I’m sick and fucking tired of dancing to their tune.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thanks, Nic.”

“No problem, brother. Oh, and that other thing you asked me to look into?”